Thursday, 29 August 2013

They didn’t make love again for
six months, though they did remain friends.
Keith would pop in after The Lord Grey closed or sometimes just later on in the
evening if things were quiet in the pub. They drew pleasure from each other’s
company. He would talk lightly about his
‘conquests’, pretending not to watch her reaction. She hoarded her love quietly within
herself. She’d been to hell and back
with her dad. She’d learnt the hard way
to store little bits of happiness when she got them. And spending time with Keith made her
happy. As for the sex, it didn’t matter
to her. So she told herself. Anyway, she couldn’t have proper sex because
of what her dad had done to her. So she
told herself. And friendship was pretty
good anyway. And all of these things
were half true. But sometimes she would
smell his midnight odour, the aroma of beer and sweat and cheap aftershave and
she would feel a stirring within her, a small wrenching in her gut and her
heart and she doubted.

Wednesday, 28 August 2013

“Men … well … wai’re a bit
sluttish, ya knaow. We loik a lot of
sex, and wai aren’t always too pa’ticular about how we get it. Some men prefer it without ties, with
strangers. I dunno. Oi had that when Oi was on the straits. Oi got enough fuckin’ with paiple who didn’t care about mai. Paiple who despised me. They thought that because Oi naided the money
Oi was a nothin’. But sex is noice. Very noice.” He smiled suddenly, quickly and
endearingly. “ And if ya can do it with someone you loike … someone you love …
then it’s seriously
good. Aiven a nice blaoke ya pick up in
the pub. Long as he doesn’t look down on
ya. Long as there’s somethin’
there. Some spark. Though Oi’m getting’s a bit sick of that too,
if ya wanna knaow. Oi love Tom. And Oi reckon Oi’m getting’ half in love with
you, Esmé. But Oi naid … fuck it, Ezz,
Oi naid men in moi loife. Oi daon’t
wanna hurt ya, and Oi’m sorry Oi have.
But Oi could never be one hundred per cent straight. Never.
No matter how much you main to me.
If Oi promised ya Oi would, Oi would be lyin’.”

Esmé looked at him for many
heartbeats. “I don’t know, Keith. I can’t.
I … I need time to think.”

Keith looked bleak.

Esmé reached down and slapped his
cheek lightly.

“Stop it.” She felt much happier than she had
before. I’m getting half in love with you.
But the more rational part of herself argued forcibly for normality—a boyfriend
who was straight, who loved only her, who wouldn’t pick up men in pubs. Like they’re all queuing up, she thought cynically. “I said I’d think about it.”

“Can wai go on bein’
friends?” Keith looked so anxious she
almost gave in right there.

Keith’s accent had strengthened as
it always did when he was emotional. “Oi
remember after Tom took mai in. Oi was
grateful—don’t think Oi wasn’t—but Oi wasn’t in love with him. Oi didn’t even love him, Oi think. Oi was just a hardened street punk. But hai was koind to mai. He wasn’t in love with me, come to think of
it. He felt sorry for mai. And of course there was sex. But he was koind. Moind you, he didn’t put up with any shit
from mai. But he … he showed he cared,
that he loiked me for more than my cock and arse. That he loiked me. For me.
And ya kanow, Ezz, ya can tell what a man is loike from what he’s loike
in bed. Shows ya what hai’s loike in his
heart.”

Esmé thought about that. Keith had always been kind and caring in
bed. When she’d been unable to make
love—like normal people,
she thought bitterly—he’d been totally unfazed.
He’d made sure she’d had pleasure in bed. He’d been affectionate and
loving.

“Oi love Tom. And he loves mai. But he doesn’t mind about you and me.”

“He knows?” Esmé was furious and embarrassed.

“Hai’s part of my loife, Ezz. Of course he knaows. But only that I’m sweet on ya.”

Esmé looked stricken.

“Not the details,” Keith added
quickly, guessing what Esmé was imagining.
“That’s proivate between you and me.”

Esmé looked at him, doubting.

“Ya think Oi’d tell him about our
proivate stuff? Have Oi taold you
anything about him and mai? What we do?”

“No. No you
haven’t.” All of a sudden Esmé wondered
exactly what they did in bed. She’d
never asked Luke what men did. But then, he wouldn't know, because he'd never had anyone. Or had he? And now
she wondered. What exactly happened with
bums and cocks and stuff? Exactly?

Tuesday, 27 August 2013

“Nao, not silly. But just because Oi pick up a blaoke an’ we
do the daid doesn’t mean I love him.
That Oi’m his friend.”

“You love Tom.”

“Yeah. But Tom took me off the straits. He saved me. He saved moi loife. And yeah, we fuck. Nao. Oi’m wrong.
We make love. Loik you and Oi
do.”

Esmé didn’t speak.

“Moi mum and dad were the one-marriage toipe. Ya knaow, faithful until
daith. But they didn’t love each other.”

“My parents didn’t either. I think mum was in love with dad. But she was so frightened of him. And he didn’t love her. He was a narcissist.”

“Your dad was a cunting prick and
I hope every minute of his loife is a torment and agony. But that’s not the point, Ezz. You can have the form of the ideal,
marriage. But maybai not the
reality. What matters is that ya love
each other.”

Sunday, 18 August 2013

The next evening, when she had to
go to work, because she was expected and needed, and because she herself needed
the money, she dragged herself into Don Vittorio’s and put on a face. From time to time, her co-worker and the
owner would look at her, quizzically, but neither openly asked her what the
problem was. And then, as she’d dreaded, towards the end of the evening Keith
came in, a small smile on his lips as he said hullo, his eyes twinkling with
affection and friendship.

She couldn’t help herself—she
smiled back. And yet she also wanted to
weep.

Keith knew at once something was
wrong.

“You OK?”

“Yeah.” Esmé was ashamed of her feelings. Love? Foolishness.
Hope was dangerous. Just accept
what was.

“Yeah, roight.
I knaow somethin’s wrong, Ezzaloona.
Tell mai.”

Esmé started to cry quietly.

“Oh, Ezz.” Keith got up from his side of the table and
knelt in front of her. “Is it your
dad?”

Esmé shook her head unable to
speak, but it might as well have been.
Because she would never be right, not after what had been done to
her. Holding tightly to Keith’s hands,
she said over her sobs, “I saw. The
other night. You and …him.”

Saturday, 17 August 2013

She showered and dressed. One of her cuts was still bleeding. Her guilt and self-loathing over her need to hurt
herself added to her depression. And she
would have to tell Luke. Something,
anyway. Because she and Keith ….

She dragged herself to the
uni. Just because her life was in ruins
didn’t mean she had to just give up. But
somehow, the magic had gone out of French.
Instead of something precious and enchanted, it seemed tedious and
pointless. Why bother at all? But she had to. She had to have a piece of paper which
qualified her for a job. She couldn’t
work at a café for the rest of her life.
Could she? And that made her
remember that she would have to go on working at Don Vittorio’s. She couldn’t just resign. She needed the money. She knew Luke would help her out for a week
or two. But until she had found herself
a new job somewhere else, she couldn’t just walk out of the job at the
café. And it was a good job too, by the standards
of hospitality. The owner, a woman, paid
her better than minimum wage, and when she’d earned the maximum she could each
week before CentreLink would start cutting back her welfare payments, she was
paid the rest in cash. She was given responsibility, trusted. She did a good job, she knew that. Somebody other than her father and mother
appreciated her. She was important to
the owner. And the owner was nice,
too. And she, Esmé, made good coffee.

Idiot! she abused herself. Staying in a place just because you make good
coffee there! You can make good coffee
anywhere. Having made the decision she
felt better. She would look online to
see if there were any jobs higher up Brunswick Rd. Close enough to their house.

The resolution to action cheered
her up a little and she was able to pay attention to the lecturer.

For the first time since she’d left
home, when she woke in the morning, her head and her heart aching, there was
dried blood on the sheets.

She lay for a long time staring at
the ceiling. She didn’t want to get
up. She wanted to hide, here, in her
room, and never have to see anyone, do anything. She heard Luke moving about in the kitchen,
banging cupboards, the sound of the kettle boiling and then hurried footsteps
down the passage, various muttered imprecations and the slam of the front door. Still she stayed in bed.

The light drifted across the
window and her room brightened.

In the end she knew she had to get
up. Life went on. Her father’s abuse had taught her that. Sighing, she climbed out of bed and went through
to the kitchen. She put on the
kettle. Tea would help. Tea always helped. Even though her father had been from
Yugoslavia and her mother from Italy, she had always found tea made her feel
better. She loved coffee; she made good
coffee in the café; she drank too many cups of coffee a day. But somehow tea calmed her. The ritual of making it. The wait while it brewed. The careful precise mixture of milk and tea
and time to make a good cuppa. Forced
patience and focus. Zen.

Wednesday, 14 August 2013

Esmé and Keith met again that
night, after the café and the bar had closed.
They went back to his flat and made love. And again the night after. But the night after that, Esmé wasn’t
working. She wished she worked every
night at the café, so that she could meet Keith every night. She knew she shouldn’t monopolise him but she
couldn’t help herself. He made her
happy. She knew somewhere inside that he
was gay. But he was so loving to her
that she thought he’d changed, that he loved her so much that he’d set aside
his gayness to be with her. That he was
no longer interested in men.

Even though she wasn’t working,
she decided she’d go down to the bar and surprise him. She normally cycled to work, but she decided
to take the tram. It took her a little
longer than she’d thought. As she
stepped down from the tram at the stop just before The Lord Grey, she caught
sight of Keith. He had his back to
her. He was pressed up against another
man, kissing him, his hands gripping the other bloke’s buttocks, his groin grinding
against the other man’s.

She turned quickly and walked away
from the bar. She didn’t want Keith to
see her shame. Her humiliation was
complete.

She caught the tram home and let
herself in as quietly as she could. She
did not want Luke to see her like this. In
the privacy of her room, she took the razor and cut deeply into her arms. Stupid! she
said to herself, angry, as she did it. Stupid!
You knew you could never be happy.
You knew that it would all be taken from you. You knew that. But still you hoped. Fool!
Cretin! Idiot!

Monday, 12 August 2013

Jason fetched another bottle and the wine bottle opener. He topped up their glasses from the open
bottle, and took off his shoes, sitting on the other end of the sofa Keith was
sitting on, and put his socked feet into Keith’s lap.

“So,” he said. “Esmé?”

“Yeah, well, I loiked her. I found
her sexy, actually, if ya mus’ knaow.” He looked at Jason half defiantly, half
guiltily. Jason opened his hands in a
what-would-you gesture, his lifted eyebrows inviting Keith to keep going.

“Yeah, well, some gay blaokes have a fit if ya’re, ya knaow, bi.”

“Well, maybe they’re afraid you’ll leave them and go straight.” Jason didn’t add that that was his own secret
fear. But even though he was worried, he
had faith that he and Keith and Luigi and Cody, and Esmé, too, would be able to
sort it out.

“Oh nao, Oi would never do that.
And that was the problem with Esmé.
I main, she knew I was gay …”

“ … somewhat gay …”

“… yeah. I taold her roight at the
beginning. But … shay fell in love with
mai. And shay’s so vulnerable, Jace, so
wounded. And so fuckin’ noice. We had a hard toime of it. And Oi hurt her, aiven though Oi didn’t main
to.”

Saturday, 10 August 2013

The wine was delicious, and felt just right for a chilly autumn night.

Jason wondered what the two women had been talking about. It was obvious they had become friends, close
friends. He envied that. Women seemed to be able to do that, to drop
the barriers to intimacy, so much easier than men. It had taken weeks for him and Keith to
become friends. And maybe, if he hadn’t
been grieving about Brent’s suicide, he himself might never have let his
barriers down and so got close to Keith.
The sex helped. But only if you
already liked each other. Well. Maybe not.
He and Luigi were friends. And
lovers.

They talked about neutral subjects and then both women rose and headed
off to bed.

As she bade them goodnight, Eleanor said, with a slight quirk in her
eyebrows, that there were more bottles of wine in the pantry in the kitchen and
they were welcome to it if they wanted.

“Thank you!” replied Jason. “Good
night. See you in the morning.”

“Good night Jason dear so nice to be here and now at last I will be able
to sleep properly this jet lag business so barbarous bring back the Queen Mary
I say.”

After this surprisingly short speech, Lucasta too headed off up the
stairs to the bedroom.

I've started uploading previous episodes of MF to my new WordPress blog, which allows an unlimited number of "pages" and so can be both a blog and a website. It's so easy to use I am thinking of diverting my website there too. We'll see.

Meanwhile, I've started uploading previous episodes, twenty at a time. The first few can be found here.

Thursday, 8 August 2013

Bolt was waiting for them, and so were the two old ladies. They were in the drawing room and for the
first time since Jason had come to Australia there was a fire lit in the
fireplace. It was chilly out, a still
night with a slight southerly off the Antarctic seas. The fire was mostly ash and embers but the
room was warm. Both women nursed glasses
of wine, and there was an open bottle of red on the table.

“Oh, how nice you’re home early!” exclaimed Eleanor.

“How nice you’re still up!” answered Jason, smiling at her in pleasure.

“When you’re old you don’t sleep as much which is as if God wants you to
make the best of your time on earth though I expect Canon Green would denounce
that as untheological though I’ve always thought that we should interpret the
Bible and all that stuff our own way because each of us sees the world
differently but I’m sure he Canon Green I mean would be very gentle because
he’s such a good man and far nicer than that bishop who’s some connexion of
your mother so pedantic and full of himself and so unctuous and orotund like a
badly made vase with moth-eaten hair.”

Eleanor placidly listened to this confused effusion and as soon as a
small gap emerged in the conversation said,

“There are some glasses in that sideboard over there, Jason. Do have a glass—you too Keith—if you would
like one.”

Tuesday, 6 August 2013

“Hang on a tick. I’ll come with
you. It’s not very busy. I’ll just go
and talk to Tom.”

Jason stayed at the bar while Keith went out the back to Tom.

Tom came out with Keith.

“Look after Keitho, Jace. With
this murderer around.” From which Jason
gathered that Keith had told Tom all about Luigi and Cody and what had
happened.

“With my life,” he replied, holding Tom’s gaze, no hint of a smile.

Tom’s eyes glinted.

“Good.” He shook Jason’s hand, the
first time he’d done so, and then he kissed Keith deeply on the mouth in front
of the whole bar. It should have looked
odd, a 50-plus man passionately kissing someone half his age, but instead Jason
was absurdly touched. We blokes think a lot about sex, he
thought, but it’s love that connects us. And then, but
we do have complicated love lives.

On the pavement outside, Keith said,

“You want to go to my place instead of yours? It’s closer. And more private.”

“Well, yeah, normally, but now that grandam is here, I’d like to see her
for breakfast.”

“What about me? Us? Won’t she … you knaow?”

Jason stopped and turned to look at him.
He brushed his finger across Keith’s lips.

“She’s happy for me,” he said.
“She really truly accepts me. She
and my sister were the only people who understood about Brent and me. It’ll be OK.”

He was silent for a little while.
Just as he was about to speak, another crowd of men came up to the bar
demanding drinks and food. Keith leaned
over towards Jason and whispered “I’ll tell you later,” squeezing Jason’s bum
at the same time. Jason got an instant
erection.

“Hey, can I have one of those too?” It was one of the crowd at the bar, a handsome
blond man with a ripped t-shirt.

“You can start by shuttin’ the
fuck up,” said Keith, compressing his lips and slitting his eyes. “But we do naid somebody to work here. Prove your ability by clainin’ the
toilets. The claining’ stuff’s in the
cupboard.” He pointed.

The other man just grinned again, raised his beer bottle in salute, and
went away.

“Two things,” said Jason, when they had another moment of relative
quietness.

“Yeah?”

“One. You’re going to get beaten
up one day.”

“Not if I have big macho you here, to put the frighteners on them.”

Jason’s eyes glinted. “Aren’t you
going to ask what the second thing is?”

Keith put his head on one side and stuck out his tongue.

“Two,” continued Jason firmly, “you’ve given me a hard-on.”

“Just as well wai’ll be able to solve that problem later, then, isn’t
it?”

“You mean I must wait?” Jason’s tone was incredulous.

“Yeah. My appointment book is
full. Lemme look.” He flipped open an imaginary diary. “Well fuck me sideways, it’s got some bloke
Jason in here. Who the fuck is he, I
wonder.” He winked.